


Cigarettes, Snowflakes, and Christmas Miracles

by ashisfriendly



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Party, Christmas Smut, F/M, Face-Sitting, Smoking, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2847680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashisfriendly/pseuds/ashisfriendly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College AU! It's the night of Tom and Jean-Ralphio's Final Holiday Party and Leslie finds herself spending all her time on the back porch waiting for a guy only to meet another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cigarettes, Snowflakes, and Christmas Miracles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [c00kie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/c00kie/gifts).



During finals week, it’s all anyone is talking about.

“They’re only freshmen, but they live off campus.”

“Tom gave me a flyer.”

“Three words: discoball christmas tree.”

“Their house is amazing, Jean-Ralphio’s dad is stupid rich.”

“I heard Lil’ Wayne is going to be there.”

It’s distracting and Leslie is, frankly, baffled by everyone’s ability to talk about anything other than GPAs and history facts and writing papers and economics finals that she will definitely fail and will have to drop out of college and she’ll have to live on the streets with the raccoons. 

Even Ann won’t shut up about it. 

“I mean, Tom’s in my biology lab and he’s disgusting, but it sounds fun.”

They’re sitting on the floor of their room, the carpet covered in its usual quilt of notes, papers, books, highlighters, and pens. There’s coffee cups from the campus cafe (open until midnight during finals week!) in the mess somewhere, along with too many Nutri-Yum wrappers. 

“Ah-ath-rye-yin-oo--”

Ann reaches over her textbook and snatches the pen out of Leslie’s mouth.

“--leave right after my last final,” Leslie finishes, grabbing the pen back to copy a graph from her economics textbook.

“Come on,” Ann whines. Ann gets a little whiney after too much caffeine and not enough sleep. It’s a beautiful whine. Leslie looks up at her friend, Ann’s brows furrowed, bottom lip out. “It’ll be fun. You haven’t kissed any guys since we’ve been here.”

Leslie scrunches her face and sticks out her tongue before turning back to her book. 

“The guys here are gross. None of them are even on the Daniel Craig to Joe Biden scale.”

“That scale is ridiculous and is impossible.”

That’s not entirely true. That scale worked in high school with Ethan. He was smack dab in the middle of the DC to JB scale. He was older, a senior with light brown hair dusted with blond. He liked to kiss Leslie’s shoulder and it was somehow the most romantic thing she’d ever heard of -- next to her parents’ proposal story -- and everything was great until he got accepted to UCLA and told her that he wanted to, “Experience life, you know?” and she never heard from him again. 

“Besides,” Leslie says, “making out is number 34 on Leslie’s Freshman Year at College Amazing 40 Point To-Do List and I still have another semester.” Leslie points to her list, pinned up on a wall by her bed. It’s written in glitter puff pen on poster board. “I’m ahead of schedule.” Leslie sits up straighter and smiles proudly at Ann.

Ann sighs. “Come on, if it sucks, we’ll leave, I promise. You just say the word.” Ann sticks her hand out. “Deal?”

Leslie contemplates the pros and cons. She really could use a legal pad and a good ballpoint pen to figure this out, but Ann is pushing her hand closer and closer to Leslie and before she knows it, Leslie is slapping Ann’s palm and they’re doing their signature Roommate Handshake of Friendship.

\--

Someone told Leslie there was a, “Christmas tree that would literally blind you,” and another person whispered to Ann that there’d be a, “platinum menorah.”

That sounded festive at the time, but looking around the party, it is very clear to Leslie that she doesn’t quite understand the socially acceptable construct of ‘festive’ among her peers.

Sure, girls are wearing dresses that are red or green or white, some made out of a deep blue satin. A guy is even walking around in a green and red striped tie. But these dresses are short, sleeveless, girls braving the cold and snow in strappy heels. And the guy in the merry tie? That’s all he’s wearing besides a pair of tight green pants.

And the music is wildly inappropriate and quite loud.

Leslie immediately takes off her Santa hat but there isn’t anything she can do about her candy cane striped tights. She could take them off in the bathroom, maybe. But before she can even suggest it to Ann, a girl bumps into them and hands Leslie a red cup.

“Happy Hanukkah!” she yells over the thumping music and kisses Leslie on the mouth. When the girl pulls back, she sees Leslie’s face and raises a hand. “Ooh! Okay, that’s fine, but just so you know a lot of people are very into me.” The girl drags her stare over to Ann and she smiles, swaying on her feet. “I’m Mona Lisa. You look fun, come with me.”

“I’m not gay,” Ann says as Mona Lisa grabs her arm. 

“Uh, me either, you’re gonna help me score that D,” Mona Lisa says and starts dragging Ann away. 

Ann lets Mona Lisa take her, mouthing, “help me,” to Leslie as she goes through the crowd. Leslie just shrugs, momentarily paralyzed by the fact that some drunk girl just kissed her and took her best friend and only reason for coming to this party, away.

A group of boys comes in behind Leslie and pushes her forward into the mass of dancing and drinking bodies. The bass of the music feels heavier here, each thump pushing up into her feet until she can feel it in her chest. She likes to dance, but this is almost claustrophobic. She clutches her Santa hat and tries to move through the bodies, avoiding any second hand contact from grinding hips or grabby hands. Leslie sniffs the cup from Mona Lisa, it smells fine, but she still doesn’t trust it. 

She pushes on her tiptoes -- on second thought, maybe the heels are a good idea, she is so much smaller than the rest of these people in her red Chuck Taylors -- and looks for a trash can. She cranes her neck back toward the door -- maybe there’s a trash bag over there or something -- when the song shifts into something new and the crowd reacts. Everyone jumps and it sends someone right into her chest, spilling the entirety of her drink down her front and throwing her off balance.

“Woah there.” The voice is laughing in her ear, a little slurred. Leslie tries to straighten, but the hands stay on her, as if they don’t trust her to steady herself on her own. 

“Sorry,” Leslie says, “someone--”

“It’s okay,” the voice yells over the music.

Leslie turns around and there’s a boy or a man -- a guy -- looking down at her. His face is very close to hers, a little square and squinty but his smile is really easy and almost puts her at ease instantly. He blinks and she watches his eyes roam her face and then down her body before coming back up to her eyes. His smile broadens a little, like he’s surprised to find her here. 

“I’m Mark,” he says. “Who are you?”

This guy, with his imperfect haircut and t-shirt with an outline of Santa’s torso on it, is definitely older than her, and much cooler than the usual boys she goes for. To Leslie, there’s nothing cooler than the captain of the debate team, but Mark, Mark looks like he could be the second baseman of the baseball team. Guys who play sports don’t usually talk to Leslie. And usually Leslie doesn’t care but right now it seems worth caring about.

So who is she? Maybe she should just make up a name, a new life, one that would attract someone like Mark.

“Emerald,” Leslie says. She winces but quickly tries to cover it up. Emerald? Come on, Leslie, you can do better than that.

“Emerald?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. He leans close to her again and Leslie feels dizzy. Did some of her spilled drink fall into her mouth? “That’s a pretty name.”

She beams. Mark looks her over again and his smile grows. Boys never look at Leslie like this, it makes her stomach burn.

“Thanks,” she says.

Mark nods and grabs the bottom of her shirt, tugging on it. “Looks like you got something on your shirt.” Leslie nods. Mark watches her and then tilts his head. “Do you need to clean up?”

“Oh,” she says, blinking, the buzz on her skin quickly leaving. “Yeah, right.”

Mark bites the corner of his mouth and leans down to her ear, his hand squeezing her shoulder. Her heart pumps faster.

“Go clean up and meet me on the back porch, by the rhinestone snowman.”

Leslie floats to the bathroom. She wasn’t even looking for anyone tonight, she thought she’d give this party about ten minutes before forcing Ann to leave. But this is like a romantic subplot in a historical fiction novel. Well, okay, not really, but she bumped into a boy who wants to meet her outside. Maybe it’s snowing. Leslie is already reciting this story in her brain to her future grandchildren when she walks into the bathroom.

She’s a mess, truly. Somehow she got a little sweaty in the crowd and there’s a huge Kool-Aid red stain down her white blouse. Her skirt is wet but the color matches the drink so maybe it’ll dry clear. Her tights are fine. She wonders if she should take off the tights. No. It’ll be cold outside. Plus, Mark already saw her just like this and he invited her to the porch so obviously he didn’t care about the tights. Right?

Leslie wishes she could talk to Ann. No time.

She takes a breath and nods to herself in the mirror before she walks out.

There’s a couple making out on the steps leading to the second floor and a girl in a short, green, velvet dress is crying to her friend in a silver outfit that makes her look like a discoball. Leslie passes the platinum menorah and a machine that’s creating bubble suds that look like snow in the dining room. Under the fake snowflakes, Leslie spots Ann, now talking to a guy who literally looks like he walked out of one of her art history textbooks. Ann doesn’t notice Leslie but that’s okay, they’re both meeting the possible love of their lives tonight.

Outside, it’s snowing. It’s perfect. 

Mark isn’t there yet, but Leslie sees the rhinestoned snowman and stands next to it, thankful for the small heater that’s plugged in behind her. It’s only warming her calves but it’s enough for now. Soon Mark will be here to help with the cold. The thought makes her stomach twist.

She waits. A few people come out to smoke a cigarette, one or two couples have come out, walking down the steps into the fresh snow hand in hand. After some time -- she’s not sure how much, she didn’t wear her watch -- a guy comes out and throws up over the railing on the other side of the porch. When he goes back inside, Leslie hears him yell out, “Merry fucking Christmas!” before the door closes behind him.

Leslie’s not sure how long it takes before her fingers become almost numb. She keeps bending them and rubbing them on her skirt, her tights. She blows on them, cupped in front of her mouth. She wiggles her toes, shakes her legs and puts her Santa hat on her head to keep warm. She recites the state capitals, then the presidents, then the amendments. 

She thinks about going back into the house to find Mark but then she considers that she might miss him out on the porch so she stays put. This is where he said he’d meet her. 

The door opens and Leslie’s stomach does a small jump. No one has come out in some time, the snow has stopped falling, and it had been so quiet and still that the noise of the door was almost alarming. She looks back to the door, the twinkling lights around the railing of the porch silhouetting him.

Not Mark. Someone else.

This guy is a lot smaller, well, leaner than Mark. His hair is definitely messier, she can see the outline of his tousled hair against the lights. It isn’t until he turns to her, the snowman and the porch light facing him, that she sees his face.

It’s a cute face, very cute and full of angles. His eyes are dark, his mouth small and just a little pouty. His face is covered in the promise of a beard, like most boys during finals week. He politely smiles at her and she returns it. Unlike most of the people here, including herself, he has on a nice winter coat, dark and expensive looking. It makes him look older and counteracts the disheveled appearance of his hair and jaw.

He looks down and digs through his coat pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. It’s brand new, the seal around the plastic making that soft zipping sound as he undoes it. He stuffs the plastic in his pocket and takes out a cigarette.

Smoking is disgusting, smells terrible, and is overall bad. Very bad. But Leslie finds herself captivated by his movements. He opens the pack and pulls out one cigarette with his fingers, just enough so he can lift the whole thing to his mouth and grab onto it with his teeth. He puckers his lips around the stick as he puts the carton back in his pocket. His lighter is next, taken out of his other pocket while the cigarette in his mouth moves around, from the shift of his teeth or the tip of his tongue, Leslie’s unsure. 

He cups one hand around his other while he lights it, encasing his face in a combination of smoke and fog.

He puckers, sucks, his cheeks sinking in. He takes the cigarette between his two fingers and removes it from his mouth as he lets out a stream of smoke. He’s careful to direct the smoke away from her.

It takes a few moments for the smell or any of the smoke to hit her nose. She shallows her breathing and turns away from him to lessen the exposure, but she sneaks glances at him. She watches him examine the cigarette in his hand before he takes another drag.

“Nice tights.”

It should sound mean, almost condescending, but it doesn’t. It also doesn’t sound quite sincere, so Leslie isn’t sure how to answer him. Either way she’s offended, and maybe a tad embarrassed.

“Thank you,” she says. She can battle this with kindness with Christmas cheer.

“You’re welcome.” This time he sounds sincere. He turns to her and smiles before taking a drag of his cigarette. It’s almost to his fingers. They’re long; his whole hand is surprisingly big, actually.

Leslie rubs her arms, shaking her legs faster. Okay, fine, she’ll admit it: she’s cold. And annoyed. Where’s Mark?

“Your hat is very festive, too,” the guy says as he stubs out his cigarette on the railing. He throws the butt onto the snow dusted lawn.

“Yeah well,” Leslie says, the annoyance clipping on her tongue, “I was told this was a holiday party.”

“That’s weird, I was only told Dr. Dre would be here and that there would be a candy cane stripper pole.” He looks out into the still night, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat. “I’m sad to report only one of those things turned out to be true.”

“The night is young,” Leslie says, sighing.

He tilts his head and furrows his bow, his jaw tight in concentration. Leslie is uneasy under his stare, it’s very evaluative, deep, something she’s never seen before. It’s different than the light, roaming gaze of Mark’s eyes. She shifts and folds her arms across her chest and examines the rhinestones on the snowman.

“Why are you out here? It’s freezing. You didn’t try to bum a cigarette from me so I’m assuming you don’t smoke.”

“Because smoking is disgusting,” she snaps. The guy shifts, the boards of the deck creaking under his weight. Leslie closes her eyes and exhales, pushing her arms from her chest. “I’m sorry, I’m cranky.”

“Well it is Christmas.”

“Oh no,” Leslie says, turning to him. She points at her chest. “I love Christmas. I am very merry and bright. Christmas is the best, I am a great gift giver and everything, just ask Ron.”

“Whose Ron?”

“I also make the best cookies in all different shapes. Candy canes, snowwomen, reindeer. Have I made my own peppermint bark? Yes. And I’m an expert Christmas tree picker-outer. I love Christmas. I am not cranky about Christmas.”

The guy puts his hands up in surrender, his lip sliding up in a small grin. “Okay, okay, you’re not cranky about Christmas.”

Leslie groans and flings her head back. “I’m sorry,” she says, “again.”

“Let’s start over.” He clears his throat and takes a few slow steps toward her as he says, “I like your tights.”

Leslie pushes her hands into her pockets and bites her smile. “Thank you.”

“My name is Ben.”

“Leslie Knope.”

“This is already going so much better. You’re not even being a pain in the ass.”

Leslie laughs, one of those laughs that surprises even the person who is laughing. It comes out in a big puff of air and Leslie quickly closes her mouth to cover it. 

“You wouldn’t be the first one to call me that,” she says.

“No?”

Leslie shakes her head. “My government teacher in junior year of high school called me, ‘that blonde pain in the ass.’” Leslie scrunches her face. “He was kind of old fashioned and racist so I guess there are worse things he could’ve said.”

“Where I come from, they call me Ice Clown and throw eggs at me.” Ben takes out another cigarette and plays with it between his fingers, watching it move. “So that doesn’t sound so bad.” He slides his gaze to her, smiling a soft, self-deprecating smile. He looks back at the cigarette.

“Ice Clown?” She rubs her hands, thinking. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“Ah, well, probably because I was an 18 year old mayor of my home town.”

Leslie gasps and feels her stomach fill with excited butterflies. “You’re Benji Wyatt?”

“That’s me.”

“I--” Leslie stops herself. She almost just said, “I was so in love with you,” but she doesn’t want to scare him off. “I was jealous of you,” she says instead.

Ben nods and shuffles through his pocket for his lighter. He brings it out and Leslie reaches over and grabs it. One of his eyebrows arches as he looks at her. 

“Mr. Mayor, smoking is gross,” she says, pushing the lighter into the waistband of her tights, against her hip.

Ben puts the cigarette behind his ear and digs in his jean pocket. He pulls out a packet of gum and puts a piece in his mouth. He turns toward the railing and watches the still night. Leslie follows his lead and rubs her hands on her skirt. 

They stand in silence. It’s not strained or unpleasant. It somehow feels full, something that usually takes time to build between two people. The coat of white on the lawn is fresh and beautiful and Leslie has a gigantic urge to go run in it, or create snow angels. She’s cursing herself for not bringing a real jacket, for wearing thin tights, for not putting on snow boots.

She’s also pretty sure she can’t feel her hands anymore.

“Why are you out here?” Ben asks, almost in a whisper, like the night is sacred.

Leslie gives her head a small shake. “I thought I was going to meet the love of my life out here,” Leslie says. “But he never showed.”

Ben is silent for awhile after that. Leslie rubs her hands together, missing the snowfall. She used to catch snow in a mug so she could take it inside. It would melt instantly. Her dad always kept the house so warm.

There’s a shift and a soft, heated weight on her shoulders. Leslie blinks, turning her head just as Ben steps back around to her front, grabbing the collar of his jacket that is now resting on her shoulders. He pulls it closer together over her chest, then again over her stomach. He lets his fingers linger over the material, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. He studies the jacket, his eyes traveling up and down the opening. 

“Put your arms through,” he suggests.

Heat is suddenly plentiful and all encompassing.

She puts her arms through the sleeves and rolls her shoulders as Ben slowly buttons the jacket. She watches him, his eyes on each button as he works his way up. Small billows of fog come from his mouth and nose as he breaths. He’s only wearing a green and red flannel shirt, the cold must be creeping its way through the material. 

At the collar, he leaves the last button open and reaches his hands up to her hat. He pulls it farther down, over her forehead and the top of her ears. She blinks her bangs away from her eyes and Ben tentatively brushes her hair away from her face. She can smell cinnamon on his breath.

“Thank you,” she’s not sure if her vocal chords caught the sound of her voice, but he smiles like he’s heard her.

Ben swallows and turns away from her, back toward the rest of the yard. 

“I hope the love of your life doesn’t mind that you’re wearing my coat,” he says, putting his hands into his pants pockets.

Leslie smiles, glancing down at her feet. The jacket is almost snug, Ben’s tiny frame not much broader than hers. It’s warm and smells like cigarettes and a spicy cologne. She can still smell the cinnamon from his breath and with the fresh smell of snowfall, she almost feels dizzy.

“He’s not coming,” she says, a small chuckle hitching onto the last word. It leaves a sad lingering in the air for a few beats until Ben sighs.

“That sounds pretty defeatist for someone who isn’t cranky because of Christmas.” Ben looks at her. “Don’t you believe in Christmas miracles?”

“Of course,” Leslie says. “I mean, there have been so many.” Ben’s mouth twitches up. “There was the time I finally found a Christmas card in my desk in third grade from Lindsay Carlisle-Shay and that’s how we turned into best friends until she betrayed me and went to Stanford and I met Ann Perkins -- who coincidentally was a different Christmas miracle. We both were early admits and were paired up as roommates and she emailed me on Christmas Eve.” Leslie smiles, staring into the colorful rhinestones of the snowman. 

Leslie goes on to tell him of some more miracles -- when her dad caught the whole plate of cookies that she knocked over, when her mom got a new pair of mittens in her stocking even though she always insisted that “Santa didn’t bring things for mommies and daddies,” when the funding for the winter ball came through at the last possible second so she could execute every idea she had for a Intergalactic Winter Wonderland -- but it isn’t until she mentions the Geraldine Ferraro doll she got for Christmas when she was 10 that Ben stops her.

“I didn’t even tell Santa I wanted it,” Leslie says.

“You do know Santa isn’t real, right?”

“Yes, Ben, I know Santa isn’t real, but I don’t go around talking about it.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, the point is, only my dad knew I wanted it.”

“Again, Leslie, Santa--”

“Isn’t real, I know, just… never mind.”

Ben holds her gaze for a beat, then turns and pushes some snow off the railing with his fingers.

“I don’t want to go back home for Christmas,” Ben says. 

She doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s honest, almost brutally so, and a bit much for strangers meeting on a porch at a ridiculous holiday party. She should say something about the importance of family or how the way her Aunt Linda gets through the holidays is with a bottle of wine, but everything feels wrong, so she stays quiet.

“My mom will be mad and I’ll miss my sister,” Ben says, not so much as an argument but as a fact. His head falls forward and he chews harder on his gum. “But it sucks there. It fucking sucks.”

Something horrible is seeping out of him. Ben’s hands are digging as deep as they can into his pockets and his body is slumped forward, head down, and jaw tight. He’s stopped chewing the gum. He blinks, his gaze hard on the railing, dusted with snow and glowing with rainbow lights. 

The space between them is tight. Leslie wants to break this, whatever it is, but she doesn’t know how. She can help her friends, but this guy, Benji Wyatt, she doesn’t know how to fix him, fix this. The emotional weight he’s left on the deck is so present, so large between them; and right now it feels like the scales are wildly off balance and Leslie doesn’t know how to add more weight to her side.

But how can you even the score with a guy who was impeached at 18 and is so desperate not to go home for Christmas that he’d spend it on campus and alone like Harry Potter during winter break at Hogwarts. Does he have a Ron Weasley that will stay back with him? The image of Ben alone in his dorm room eating a bag of potato chips and listening to Christmas music on Christmas morning makes Leslie’s soul feel like it’s packed with fresh, cold snow.

“Ben, I--”

“If he’s not coming, why are you still waiting?” Ben asks.

Leslie keeps feeling off balance with him. He hits her with weighted sadness and then side swipes her with curiosity and something more light. 

But his question does sink into her.

Why is she still waiting? Why has she put so much stock into some guy who paid her the least bit of attention and -- the more she thought about it -- didn’t give her any real implications of longing or interest that went beyond her skin. That wasn’t like her. Nothing about this night was like her. She didn’t like these huge parties with ridiculous amenities and booze that flowed like water. Leslie didn’t follow boys to porches and wait for them in the freezing cold. Leslie didn’t let boys turn her into grumpy, cold as ice suckers.

Ben waits for her answer. He shifts the gum in his mouth, his tongue pushing against his cheek, his jaw loosening and clenching. His Adam’s apple bobs with his swallow and he blinks, his kind, brown eyes watching and waiting so patiently. 

Leslie takes a moment to think through every step that got her to this porch with this boy, and thanks the fates for every unusual decision that made it possible.

She shakes her head and smiles, answering him finally. “I don’t know.”

Ben smiles, a small note of understanding on his curved lips and in the soft round of his eyes. He reaches forward and grabs her hand. His mouth forms into a small O, his brows furrowing in concern.

“Your hands are freezing.” 

Ben’s thumb goes across the top of her hand and he grabs her other hand and puts them together between his own. He whispers something to himself and then brings her hands to his mouth. He blows and she feels not only her hands thaw, but her entire body.

His gaze holds hers as he blows along her fingers again. He rubs his hands over hers. There’s a long stretch of time before Ben moves again. It’s just his stare and their breaths and everything else is still and quiet. Ben’s fingers tighten and he pulls her hands until his lips are on her knuckles. 

She’s not breathing.

He kisses twice along one hand, over her knuckles, and moves over to her other hand for two more small kisses. He turns one hand over so he can kiss her palm. Leslie feels the scratch of the stubble from his jaw on the pads of her fingers. He does the same with her other hand. Leslie’s heart is hammering against her chest, her breaths are struggling to complete their cycles, getting caught in her throat, stuck in her chest. 

Ben closes his eyes as he gives each wrist a kiss. He moves her hands to his neck, leaving them at the nape. Her fingers tap lightly along the skin and hair there, his skin cold, hair soft. He runs his hands down her arms, over her shoulders and down to her waist. He leans down and Leslie’s internal alarms start going off, bells ringing, her own voice screaming in her ears that he’s going to kiss her, he’s going to kiss her, and she wants -- needs -- him to do it now.

Their noses brush first. His is somehow warm, or hers is impossibly cold in comparison, and then his lips brush hers. 

It’s soft, the softest kiss she’s ever received. His nose brushes hers again as he pulls her closer to him, so their connected from hips to chest. Leslie blinks, catching the fall of white flecks. She turns her head and Ben buries his face into her hair, his nose brushing the white fluff of her hat. He hums and Leslie is glad he’s holding her because her balance falters.

“It’s snowing again,” Leslie whispers. 

Ben’s hands leave her waist, grabbing her face and steering her back to his lips. This time it’s not soft, not even hard, it’s earth shattering.

Ben backs her into the railing and Leslie is thankful for the jacket, blocking the cold and the pointy bulbs of the lights. He presses down on her chin with his thumbs, opening her mouth, and he devours her. He tastes like cinnamon. She groans and he moans in response, his tongue tracing her mouth with a force that almost makes her soul leave her body. 

Ben grabs her waist and lifts her up to the railing. His lips fall as he looks down, watching his hands work on the buttons of his coat. He’s breathing hard and so is she, the fog of their breaths mingling.

“I regret putting you in this,” Ben whispers.

She giggles, an honest to God giggle. She’s floating. When Ben gets the jacket open, he smooths his hands underneath, along her sides, to her back. She moans, kissing him again, wrapping her legs around his waist. Leslie pulls on his shirt, his shoulders, his arms, his hair. She wants him closer and she’s going to work until their bodies somehow melt together.

They kiss, stray snowflakes finding their way into their hair, on their noses. One melts on her cheek like a tear and Ben’s thumb takes it and her chest fills, expands, and almost bursts. Her fingers grip his shirt at his waist and she pulls as hard as she can, like he’s her side of the rope in a game of tug of war and if she loses, he’ll disappear. 

The snow on the railing is melting and the chill and water are seeping through her tights, through her skirt, and she shivers. But the chill could be from the way his fingers push under her shirt, the way his tongue hastily glides across her teeth, or the push of his hips into hers.

“You cold?” Ben asks against her lips. He kisses across her cheek and down her neck. He pulls the collar of his jacket and her blouse away from her skin and kisses a spot there, sucks, circles his tongue, and bites until Leslie thrashes from him, moaning.

He smiles, a sharp curl of his mouth that is both wicked and sexy. Leslie is on fire.

Ben’s hair is a mess, sticking up in every way along his head. His lips are swollen, deep red, his cheeks a light pink. He’s still breathing heavily, his chest expanding and deflating, fog seeping from between his lips. Leslie pulls him back into her, arching her back, rolling her hips forward the best she can. He groans and wraps his arms around her, trying to smash them together. Their bodies move in an uneven rhythm, the wet cold of the railing that she’s trying to balance on leaving her without grace. She wants him to pick her up -- she doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to do it -- and take her somewhere warm and seep under her skin until she’s breathing him in and out.

“I--”

“Do--”

They laugh, swallowing the sound, forgetting they both tried to talk. Instead they lose themselves in hands, lips, tongues, and friction again. Ben pushes his fingers beneath her bra and the cold air bites her stomach. But his fingers are heating her, pushing against her nipple, kneading her sensitive flesh. She arches her back, moans into his mouth, and when his mouth falls from hers she breaths his name.

“Come on,” Ben says, pulling her off the railing. 

She falls and trips, laughing. He holds her steady and pulls her quickly back through the back door. Ben pushes through the crowd, the music thumping and their bodies swaying accordingly. He turns a corner and they’re at the staircase, passing two people making out. The girl’s hand is in the other girl’s pants. Seeing it, with the memory of Ben’s lips on hers, and the contact of his fingers around her hand, flames tangling inside Leslie’s stomach.

Ben runs down a short hallway and flings a door wide open. Leslie yelps when she sees the two people, naked and grinding, fast and sloppy. Ben closes the door and moves on to the next one as if nothing happened.

It’s empty and dark inside the next room, the only light coming from the radiating Christmas lights from outside the window. There’s a big L shaped couch that faces a large TV. Ben shuts the door and she hears the click of a lock before she’s slammed against the wood.

He flattens his body onto hers and they breathe. The shove startled her, not in a bad way, but in a new, alarming way. Her veins are churning lava through her body. Ben is breathing, the push of his chest crushing and beautiful against hers. He slowly reaches up and removes her hat, smoothing his hand through her hair, cupping her face, tightening his fingers along the back of her jaw, along her neck.

Leslie swallows. “Why were you out there?”

“To smoke,” Ben answers, smoothing his thumb along her cheekbone. 

Leslie reaches up and takes the cigarette from behind his ear and throws it aside. “It’s really disgusting.” 

Ben pushes his fingers under the waistband of her tights and snatches the lighter from her hip, pocketing it. He lifts his eyebrow as a challenge but Leslie doesn’t really remember how to move or think, let alone the importance of cigarette dangers.

“Also,” Ben says, smiling, “you said you were waiting for the love of your life. I guess I showed up.” His words, rough with want and quiet with the secret of something, makes every nerve in her body vibrate. Ben leans his forehead on hers. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she whispers. Ben pulls her shirt and Leslie lifts her arms. The blouse falls to the ground.

“I didn’t mean to push you into the door so hard,” Ben whispers, kissing her collar bone. He reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra. 

“It’s okay, I’m tough.” Leslie lets her arms fall and sighs as Ben’s fingers take the straps down her arms, the bra falling to their feet.

Ben growls. He kneels down and unties her shoes, takes them off. He unzips her skirt and pulls it down her legs and Leslie carefully steps out of it. His hands stay steady on her hips as he evaluates something. She can see his jaw is tight, but it’s all she can really see. The rest is just the mess of hair on his head.

Ben hooks a finger in the waistband of her tights and snaps it against her skin. 

“This isn’t my usual style,” Leslie breaths, looking up at the ceiling as his hands move over her thighs.

“I figured you didn’t wear candy cane tights all the time, Leslie.” He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slowly pulls them down, kissing the flesh of her right leg as it becomes uncovered. 

Leslie sighs blissfully. “I meant hooking up with strangers at a party.”

“Oh,” Ben says, kissing her knee. “We’re not strangers, Leslie Knope.” He kisses her other knee and takes her tights off, Leslie using his shoulder for balance as she steps out of them.

“In fact,” he continues, “you’re the only person on campus who knows about Ice Town.” He reaches up and rubs the indentation her tights made on her the skin of her hip. He traces the top of her panties. “And I’m the love of your life, remember?”

“You make a good point,” Leslie moans, Ben’s fingers tracing her over the thin material. Her underwear are grey with reindeers on them.

Ben pulls them off and she’s naked, completely naked, in front of a completely clothed Benji Wyatt. A year ago, this would’ve been a fantasy of hers. It still is.

“I’m an only child,” Leslie blurts out, the strangeness, the unknowing of each other suddenly overwhelming. Sure, she knows about Ice Town but she knew that before.

“Okay,” Ben says, crawling across the floor to grab her hat. “I have a brother and a sister.”

He stands and walks to her, a small grin on his face. Leslie reaches out and starts undoing the buttons of his flannel. Leslie continues working on the buttons while Ben positions the hat just like he wants on her head. He fluffs her hair that falls underneath. 

“My dad died when I was ten and I love political thrillers and mystery novels. I’ve seen every episode of Murder She Wrote five times. I have a lot of political biographies and I never sleep unless I’ve had too much sugar, then I nap forever.” It all comes out in a burst, speed and mashed words crowding her mind. 

“I’m sorry about your dad,” Ben says. He rubs his thumb on her cheek. “I love Star Wars.” There’s a brief pause and Ben’s eyes close for a strong, silent second. “And my family is broken.”

Leslie grips Ben’s shirt in her hands until her nails start to push into her palms through the fabric. He’s staring at her, intense and raw, and Leslie is baffled. So baffled that he would share any of this. But, it’s not like she goes around telling everyone her father is dead. It hurts too much.

She wants to break this sad spell, this is not why they’re here, this is not why Ben brought her up here, it is not what she wants to think about right now.

So Leslie pushes his shirt off and quickly tugs his white undershirt over his head.

She lets out a breath. He’s gorgeous. Very thin, with pale skin stretched over lean muscle. His chest is dusted with hair, a beautiful line of it descending down his stomach and into his pants. His jeans hang low on his hips so she can spot the top of his hip bones, just a big enough peek to make her want to sink her teeth into them.

Ben takes a step back and evaluates her. He looks over her face, down her body, stopping along her breasts and again at her hips, and smiles to himself when he reaches her toes. They’re painted green with red polka dots. Ann did them a couple days ago. He takes the same slow, intoxicating trip back up her body until he gets to her face. His jaw slacks a little, his eyes softening. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

Leslie nods. Her heart rate rises as he kneels back down to the floor, his hands steady on her hips. He whispers, “Yes,” as his touch travels down, smooths to the inside of her thighs and he pushes her legs apart. She awkwardly separates them, stepping wider and wider apart until his tapping on her legs stops. 

His fingers trail back up until they’re touching her, right where he needs to be but still not deep enough. She sighs, moans, leans back against the door so she doesn’t lose her balance. She looks up at the ceiling, tries to keep her breathing under control, tries to keep everything under control. A boy has never examined her like this, never been this slow and methodical, and she’s worried he’s going to find something the others haven’t. Some flaw that will take this -- this beautiful, invigorating feeling -- away.

Both hands are on her now and she feels him, slowly, so slowly, spread her open.

The sound he makes is almost animalistic. It’s a deep groan, hot and loud, from his chest. Then he sighs and she feels his forehead make contact with her belly button. He inhales, and softly speaks on the exhale.

“You’re a Christmas miracle.”

Then his mouth is on her.

Leslie gasps, pushing up on her toes and arching her back. She whispers, “Oh my God,” because it slips out before she can stop herself, before she has any fleeting moments of self consciousness. Her hands slam behind her on the wall, clawing for purchase because her legs are losing their strength. The bass of the music is vibrating her back and the floor buzzes beneath her to the rhythm. 

She can’t focus, there’s too much going on. Ben’s tongue, his mouth, the sinister groans that escape from his chest and into her. The music thumps and her brain is fogging as electricity sizzles through her veins. The world is tilting and it’s too hard to keep up with its spin.

“Ben,” Leslie pants, “Ben--”

His mouth leaves her and the sound she makes is involuntary and loud. She pushes off the door and reaches for his face but he’s already too far away. He grabs her hands and pulls her forward. She squeals and falls down on top of him, her knee scraping against the carpet in a faint burn. 

Ben is smiling and Leslie lets her forehead lean against his as she laughs. He kisses her, grabbing her ass and hoisting her up his body until their lips detach. He leans back on the floor and keeps pulling her forward. Leslie falls again, this time her stomach over his face. She laughs.

“What are you doing?” Leslie asks.

“Sit on my face.”

Leslie sits up, her ass on his chest. Ben looks at her, eyes dark and mouth slick with her. Her heart is pumping in her ears as he pushes her up his chest. She follows his guide, scoots up his torso until she’s over his face. Ben moves his hands over her skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake, until his hands are flat on top of her thighs. He pulls and she feels him, his jaw, his mouth, his tongue, hot against her. She gasps and falls forward but she catches herself and Ben’s hands move up to her stomach, her breasts, and he helps push her upright again. A deep groan vibrates through his chest and into her.

It takes a few swipes of his tongue, the shifting grip of his fingers on her thighs, and one more delicious groan before he finds a rhythm beneath her. Leslie tries to keep up with the sensations, tries to stay upright even though her body keeps squirming and bending. Her breaths can’t keep up with every dart of his tongue, pucker of his lips. He moves her hips over his face and she gasps, his tongue moving along her opening and to her clit with each roll of her hips. She lets him guide her, keeps up with the push and pull of his fingers, lets him take this control from her because he hasn’t steered her wrong once.

The rise starts in her legs. The muscles are twitching, the heat pooling in her stomach and shooting out the numbing pleasure through the rest of her body. She starts moving her hips faster, harder, without Ben’s help. She can’t control it, and she has no room in her flooded mind to be concerned with the well being of his jaw, or the air he needs to breathe. She grinds into his mouth, holds onto his hair and keeps her other hand suspended in the air to help her balance as she fucks his face. 

“Ben,” she moans. 

Ben responds by grabbing her hips and lifting his head, trying to push deeper. She’s so close to the top, she’s practically cresting but she can’t quite fall over.

But Ben’s thumb pushes onto her clit, letting out a hard, loud moan that cracks open the entire universe, and she comes undone.

She screams, her back arching, hands pawing for something to hold onto. Ben rubs his hands along her legs and slowly laps at her. He’s soft and lazy, but it still sends bolts of lightning through her body.

They shift, Leslie lifting her leg over him and falling onto the floor, her back flat against the carpet. Ben turns onto his side and kisses her shoulder, his mouth is warm and wet. He sits up and wipes his mouth with his hand. Leslie looks at him and smiles, full and invigorated with him. She sits up and grabs the back of his neck, pulling him in. 

The kiss slowly builds, just a slide of lips that turns into the smallest swipes of tongues before they’re both hungry and wanting and pulling. A new wave rolls through Leslie as teeth and noses bump, her hands working clumsily on the clasp of Ben’s pants. When he’s free, he sighs into her mouth, and when she takes him in her hand, he whispers her name.

Her fingers alternate pressure, her palm rubs up and down his shaft, her wrist twists. Ben is a mess of breaths, moans, and swallows. His forehead is against hers, eyes down on her hand. She watches, too, captivated by the movement of her hand, the perfect length and feel of his dick, and the noises he makes as she does something as small as push a little harder with her thumb on the tip with an upstroke of her hand. She smiles when he swears, bites her lip and moans along with him after he tells her to go faster.

Leslie’s other hand slides up his thigh and cups his balls and she squeezes, Ben’s eyes popping, flipping up to her. He leans back on his hands and Leslie misses the weight of his head on hers but she keeps going. Her hands slow as she carefully moves over his legs so she can settle between them. She kisses his chest, his stomach, until her mouth is hovering above him. Her hands have almost completely stilled but they hold onto him so he won’t move, won’t consider that anything is done here.

She touches the head first. The tip of her tongue slides across his slit very slowly. The salty taste of him mixes with the smell of his cologne, swirling something hot inside her stomach. Leslie circles her tongue around the head and then puckers her lips on the top like a cute, welcoming kiss. His hand finds the ends of her hair and he fingers the curls, tugs on a few strands as he moans. Finally, after another round of tongue twirling and soft kisses, his hips buck. Leslie smiles as something sinister travels through her and she opens her mouth to take him.

Her tongue is heavy on the underside of his dick as she moves up and down. His hips lazily roll, just a pleasant rhythm that Leslie can adopt as she bobs. Her hands take turns pushing on his hips, sliding up his slim torso, and wrapping around his shaft for more friction. She enjoys this, the taste of him, the way he writhes underneath her, the sounds he makes. Leslie can feel her legs give out a little when he whispers something about how good her mouth feels; and she completely falls into the scary abyss of the universe when he pulls her up to his mouth and whispers, “Kiss me.”

They kiss. His mouth is open wide and it’s a little sloppy but it isn’t void of depth. Leslie reaches between them and strokes him again, moves faster than before, swiping her thumb over the tip and smearing him along the shaft, between her fingers, creating a slick surface to move. He’s trembling and whispering things into her mouth. He pulls away, their noses bumping as she pumps.

“I don’t -- shit -- I don’t have a condom.” His hand grabs her arm and he squeezes, his breaths gaining speed. “Good lord, Leslie.”

Ben is really shaking now. His eyes are closed tight and he’s biting his bottom lip. His jaw falls open and his head flies back. Leslie is fascinated by him. Watching him come undone like this is almost as invigorating as watching him take a cigarette out of a pack and light it.

Ben might be more dangerous than those stupid cancer sticks.

“I’m on the pill,” she says.

Ben groans and takes her hand away from him. He takes a few breaths, closing his eyes and rolling his shoulders. When he looks at her again, his eyes are dark and determined, beautifully set. Fire and ice fight in her chest.

His pants fall to the floor when he stands and he carefully steps out of them, taking her to the couch where he sits down, facing her. He kisses her hands again, a replay of their time outside and she can almost taste snowflakes on her tongue, feel the chill on her nose. She’s almost dizzy in him and as impossible as it feels to be this overwhelmed by an almost total stranger, she refuses to think too much about it. 

She tries something new. She relaxes. Lets go.

Leslie straddles his waist and she hovers above him. She can feel his dick at her opening, moving with each shift of her body like he’s seeking her out. A chill runs up her spine and she grips his shoulders to control it. Nerves puddle in the bottom of her stomach and she lets out a nervous breath.

“Hi,” Ben says. The soft turn of his mouth sucks the unease away, leaves her floating.

“Hi.”

Ben holds onto her hips and helps guide their bodies so they can connect. They do and she holds her breath until she sinks down and they are no longer two people but something meshed and new.

His fingers grip her hips and he closes his eyes again. She kisses him and he kisses her back, their bodies starting to move. It’s slow but the build is quick. She lifts her hips, rolls her entire body. She leans back, hands on his knees and Ben’s mouth on her breasts. His thumb rubs her clit and she collapses forward, her chin bumping his head. There’s a mess of apologies and giggles but hips don’t stop moving and soon laughter dies and moans come alive until she’s telling him that she’s

There.

Her orgasm keeps running through her, Ben’s thumb keeping the pressure firmly on her clit as he pushes up into her. She holds onto his shoulders, her face in his neck as she whimpers and moans, her muscles tired and numb but still pulsing. Ben digs his fingers into the small of her back and his back arches so he is deep inside her when he releases. Leslie kisses the skin of his neck as he groans, curses, whispers her name. 

They don’t move. Ben holds onto her waist, arms wrapped around her back as he squeezes. Every now and then, he pushes up into her or her hips reflectively move. They both shake when their bodies take control, gasping at the sensitive touch. He softens and Leslie still can’t bring herself to get off of him, even when he moves his hips so he slips out of her.

He kisses her head and taps her hip and she slowly, reluctantly moves off of him. She tries to get up on her shaking legs but Ben just keeps a hand on her shoulder, signaling for her to stay. He tosses her clothes at her as he grabs his own. They dress quietly. Leslie tries to hide her smile, biting her lips so they don’t overwhelm her face. She feels a certain giddiness, something that only her Great Big Book of US Facts or a good brownie used to do.

Ben walks back to the couch, his jeans low on his hips, white shirt on and his plaid one balled in his hand. An unlit cigarette wiggles between his teeth. Leslie only has her shirt and panties on, the tights proving to be a challenge in her numb state. She puts her foot in one leg and pulls, falling back on the couch with a soft laugh.

“Having trouble?” Ben asks, he moves the cigarette to the corner of his mouth.

“I shouldn’t have worn these fucking tights,” she laughs.

Ben laughs, kneeling down to try to get her foot to go into the other leg. Leslie covers her face with her hands and shakes her head, a warm blush pushing from her chest, up her neck, to her face. Ben tries to slip the rest of the tights up her legs but his fingers keep digging into her muscle and skin and he keeps grunting and laughing. Leslie laughs, too, trying to hide the happiness on her face with her hands.

“Are you laughing at me?” Ben asks. He pinches her thigh.

Leslie shakes her head. She spreads her fingers so she can take a peek at him. He’s somehow laughing and looking confused all at the same time. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth as if it was lit, holding it up between his two fingers. Her tights are now half way up one leg and only to the middle of her calf on the other, the swirl of red and white scrunched and crooked.

Ben puts the cigarette behind his ear and whispers something as he cocks his head to the right. Leslie watches him try to unroll the scrunch on the right leg of her tights. She giggles and he pinches her thigh again, his eyes sweeping up, looking at her from beneath his eyelashes. 

He’s adorable, handsome, so disheveled and sexy that it should be illegal. His body is small but strong, and his hands are so big compared to the rest of him. He carries something sad but somehow laughs over something as silly as his own frustration at a piece of clothing. He kisses like a man starved yet treats her like he’s Indiana Jones and she’s some kind of rare artifact that he wants preserved and respected in a museum. He teases her and admires her all in one gaze. His crooked smile sets fire to her bones and his touch creates ice in her veins. 

He’s confusing. Ben is something that shouldn’t be so confounding yet make absolute sense all in one breath. He’ a stranger! He’s… well, she’s not sure what he is and she’s completely terrified and enthralled to find out.

“What?” Ben asks. One of his eyebrows arches and the movement is so fluid and natural she wonders if he’s been practicing that all his life.

“Who are you?” she asks. 

Ben furrows his brow, the smallest hint of confusion in his eyes.

“I’m the love of your life,” he says. “Remember?”

Of course. How could she forget?


End file.
